Geas Gynvael
by DeithwenAddanYnCarnAepMorvudd
Summary: I saw worlds bound in ice. - Cirilla Fiona Elen Rhianon, Surprise Child, Hen Ichaer, the Lady of Time and Space.
1. The Arrival

_"The Time of the White Chill and the White Light is nigh."_

 _Ithlinne_

A long time ago a prophecy was made by an elven woman named Ithlinne. When the White Frost comes, the worlds will perish. A time of sword and fire, a time of wolven storm and long winter. Only Hen Ichaer, Elder Blood, can stop the White Frost. Cirilla Fiona Elen Rhianon, the daughter of the Gul, the heir of the Elder Blood has once stopped the White Frost from destroying the world that she knew. However, the White Frost is not just a prophecy, a tale to scare children with. It's not a monster or a person. It's a wild force of nature. Emancipation of Destruction. A force that cannot be put to a stopped, but merely tamed for a while. If you don't strengthen the dam, the force of the water would eventually overcome it and destroy it. The fire will die out without fuel to burn. A hooded woman was walking on a white field, leading a black mare beside her. Wind is howling, picking up the snow dust from the ground and sending it into a dance. It would be beautiful if it wasn't so deadly cold.

"We can't stop, Roach," a woman said to her only companion. If they stopped right there amidst the white field, they'd be dead in a few hours. There's not a log in the sight that could be used for a campfire. Ciri decided to spare the mare the trouble of carrying her. They had no food for tomorrow, but Roach needed energy to fight the cold and carry Ciri if the need arises.

"We'll make it, Roach. We will make it to Winterfell."

The castle of Winterfell could be seen from afar. Dark and mighty on the white, bland stage. White snow, white skies. Ciri could only guess where the border between earth and skies lied. As she approached the castle, she felt warmer but uneasy. The dark castle seemed only darker and gloomy on the contrasting white background. And it seemed old. Ciri looked up. The dark tower raising above, mighty and old. Ciri felt as if someone was looking at her with disdain.

"Stop there," said a guardsman. He had dark hair, medium height and weighed more than he should for his suit and armor. Dark hair was unkempt and there were fuzzy dark hairs growing on his jaw. The second man looked younger. He was taller, had a lighter complexion and big blue-grey eyes. His hair was dirty brown as if there was dust on them. The woman obeyed, stopped her mare and took off her hood. Strands of ashen hair were flying on the wind.

"I'm here to see the Lord of the castle."

"What does one like you want with someone like our Lord?" ask the guard with a grin on his face. The ashen-haired woman grimaced in disgust. She knew his kind. The kind of man who would spit on a woman who said no to him. The kind who would mock the powerless and worship powerful.

"The army of the dead. You call them the White Walkers," she said staring the guardsman in the eye. She could how the man's face has changed for a second. He seemed lost and confused. The taller guardsman came close to his comrade and whispered something in his ear.

"What do you know?" said the shorter guard.

"I will speak to the Lord and to the Lord alone," Ciri said, petting her horse. She had a proud smile on her lips. The tall one called a young boy to come. He kneeled in front of the boy and started softly telling him something. When he kneeled, Ciri saw the face of the young boy. The eyes, the hair, were telling everyone that the tall guardsman and the boy were brothers. The young brother nodded and ran away with a spring in his feet.

"You will have to wait," the tall guard said as he was returning to his position. Cirilla didn't mind. After hours of struggling with cold and wind, she didn't mind standing here, where it felt warmer and safer. She heard people talking, walking, shouting. The sounds of living, she missed them.

Jon Snow was sitting in the room with Davos Seaworth. Three candles on the wooden table and a fireplace were the only sources of light. They both looked at each other as if they have just had a conversation they didn't agree on.

"We need dragonglass, ser Davos, and we need everyone we can get to fight," said Jon. "Everyone."

"You know better than anyone what it takes to wield a sword," started ser Davos. "Knowledge. And knowledge comes with time. Time that we don't have."

Jon dropped his hand on the table. The old oaken table didn't make much noise, but it was enough to make Davos understand that Snow was done with this conversation. They needed everyone including women.

"Those who want to fight for the living will be trained to fight. Regardless of their gender," said Snow harshly. Ser Davos nodded without any enthusiasm. He knew there was no point of trying to change Lord's mind as of know, but Seaworth wasn't done with this conversation. If someone couldn't properly fight, they'd die quickly. To Davos, there was no point of bringing more dead to the battlefield. It was much a disadvantage for the living. A knock on the heavy door ended Seaworth's trail of thought. Jon turned his head towards the door.

"Come in," said Snow calmly. A door slowly opened as it was a bit too heavy for a child to open effortlessly. A boy appeared in the door way.

"There's a woman at the gate," he started. Ser Davos smiled at the boy. A woman in such weather at the gates of Winterfell. That's strange, he thought.

"She wants to speak to Lord Snow," the boy finished. Ser Davos looked at Jon Snow. His face expressed surprise and concern. Davos could understand why.

"Is she alone?" he asked so that Jon wouldn't have to.

"Only a horse with her," the boy said, "as I could see it."


	2. You may stay

Davos looked at the boy. He was tall and lean. His cheeks were pink from cold and running. Lord Seaworth kindly invited the boy inside to get warmer.

"What else could you see?" asked Seaworth as the boy came closer to the fireplace. The appearance of a woman at the gates of Winterfell seems peculiar. However, just a few days back King in the North announced the recruitment of women to train and fight for the living. Could the woman at the gates be coming to fight against wights?

"Strange lass. Has grey hair like me grandma but ain't one. I did not see her sigil, my lord," said the messenger. "Oh! I think I saw a sword on her saddle."

"Alright, go to the kitchen and ask for a piece of bread. Say ser Davos and lord Snow allowed," Davos decided to speak before Jon could. The boy thanked them, bowed and run away to the kitchen. Onion knight smiled at him. The wooden door closed. Snow stood up without uttering a word. Seaworth followed his example. There were no words needed to communicate their destination or intensions. The dark was slowly approaching, and they had a guest at the gates.

Davos looked at the woman that was coming to them. She was leading a black mare behind her. The boy has good eyes. There were two swords attached to the saddle among other things. One had a regular, straight cross-guard. The other had spiked bands that went towards the blade. It was an odd detail. The mare had long black mane and large hooves. It looked healthy and muscular, yet maybe a palm shorter than usual. Expensive must be. Yet the woman who led the horse didn't look like the wealthy type. She was tall and hidden under the cloak but as she was moving Davos could see more. And the way she moved was of a skilled hunter. However, she was wearing simple travelling attire. Dark brown above-the-knee boots on a heel, dirty in places and covered in snow till ankles. Dark grey leather pants. There was a leather belt on her right hip that held a dagger. She had long leather gloves on her hands that went to her elbow. The gloves were fixed in place by belts on her wrists and below the elbows. There were lines of hard leather going along her long arm. Gloves had small silver pikes on the knuckles. Even those details were secondary to what caught the eyes when Davos looked at the strange woman for the first time. Her ashen hair, big green eyes and long sharp scar on her left cheek. The ashen haired woman stopped a few steps away.

"You asked to see me," Jon started first. Davos looked at the man to understand his intentions. Snow was carefully observing the person in front of him.

"This is Jon Snow, King in the North and Lord of Winterfell as of now," Seaworth decided to help with the talking part. It is suitable for a king to be introduced. Also, Davos noticed that Jon put his hand on Longclaw. The sight of someone of an outsider with a sword at the gates of your home can make anyone fill with concern.

"Ciri," the woman nodded. "Just Ciri is enough. I've heard you are letting women fight against wights."

"Ser Davos Seaworth."

"We need everyone we can get to face the White Walkers," the exchange of courtesies was interrupted by Jon.

"I want to fight," Ciri said with great confidence.

"It is to be admired," intervened Davos. "But, forgive my asking, can you?"

"I have two swords. Do you think I would carry them if I couldn't wield one?" Ciri crossed her arms on her chest. Her cloak fell behind allowing to see more of her. She was wearing brown leather jacket that was tightened by a wide leather belt on her waist. There was something shimmering The jacket had half-sleeves, under which a light-coloured shirt was seen. From shoulder to waist the jacket was lined with hard leather. But most importantly, there was a harness going across her chest clearly to carry something behind her back.

"We are not fighting men," said Snow in dry voice.

"I would not be here if you were," the ashen-haired chuckled.

"I believe you've been on the road for a long time," Seaworth decided to ease the growing tension in the air. "You are cold and hungry. And staying here is not helping either of us.

Jon gave him a stern look. He wasn't very welcoming today as it is and now there was an armed stranger under the roof. Lord Seaworth look at the woman again. He didn't want to undermine the woman based solely on her gender, but no one has heard of an ashen-haired woman to wield a sword masterfully. And she didn't look like a bandit or a cutthroat. By looking at the way she carries herself, how she holds her head and that gaze she is giving to people…

"You can leave your sword," ser Davos added. "You won't need it. For now."

Ciri didn't feel easy about leaving her swords. Yet there was some truth to Davos's words. And there's a good chance they would not let her though. She followed the two men to share a meal. One man was old, much older compared to the other, with grey in his hair and beard. He had kind face and Ciri liked him right away for it. The other one was young and with dark curly hair. Faint scars on his face, young yet sad face. There was incredible sadness in his eyes. Yet there was emptiness too. The eyes of an outcast did not suit the King in the North. And how could he get them? Jon Snow reminded Ciri of someone. With his world-weary look, sad eyes and tired shoulders. She could not order her thoughts as her thought process was interrupted.

"You seem confident about your abilities to wield a sword," noted ser Davos. Apparently, she was silent just as Snow was. And they were carefully observing each other. Cirilla was watching him because Jon reminded her of someone. Jon had to watch her because she was a stranger, potential danger that's why they were sitting further away from her as well.

"I know my worth," the woman with ashen hair replied.

"How did you learn to fight with a sword?" asked Snow.

"I am a hunter," answered Cirilla.

"You hunt with a sword?"

"I don't hunt rabbits with a sword, if that what you are asking. I hunt…"

"Men? "asked Davos, raising a brow.

"Monsters," she said with pride and confidence.

"Monsters?" questioned Jon. Ciri could tell that he was strongly doubting her words. Well, no wonder, truly.

"Your Grace," Ciri addressed the King unsure of the appropriate way to do it, "you need people who can use a sword, I am one."

"It is true, but you can murder half the castle during the night."

"I've been on the road for a long time, I'd rather prefer to spend the night in bed."

And the silence fell. Jon and Ciri were just looking at each other, testing each other. Seaworth could sense hostility and distrust in the air. He could not blame his King for it yet he understood the position the woman was in.

"You may not have heard about me and that's alright. I come from a brotherhood," Ciri stood up before talking. Her stubborn eyes were looking at Jon Snow. She wants to make her point, it's understandable. Davos looked at the King. He was prepared to listen to the woman and so was Jon.

"A brotherhood of monster-slayers, "Ciri continued. Ser Davos saw how Jon's face changed for a second at the mentioning of a brotherhood. He was in one, once, and he died for it.

"A brotherhood is for life," Snow said patiently.

"Yes," the woman nodded, "and as a brotherhood we have a code. And one part of our Code is that we do not kill humans. Without a good reason."

"Good reason?"

"If a man runs at me with a sword in his hand, aiming at my heart, I will not just stand and wait for death's embrace. I want to live just like everybody else."

The witcheress watched the expression on men's faces. She invoked the Witcher's Code to appeal to them. It's an old trick Geralt taught her to win trust of ordinary folk. For some reason, it worked more often than Ciri would expect it to. And it always surprised her why. Was it because the Code made it seem like she belonged to an honorable organization and had more to lose? Was it because it created an idea in people's minds that she had a greater sense of honor? She could only guess.

"Where are your brothers then?" the question came from the King in the North.

"We walk our Paths alone. And it can prove dangerous sometimes," she kept her answers reserved. "I wish I could tell you more about my brothers, but the Code prohibits."

The more I talk about the Code the more they believe. It's like every lie. The more details you add to your lie the more believable it is. To keep the lie going you have to remember the fake details and stick to them at all times. She glances at the men again. Davos seemed more suggestible to her story. Jon Snow, however, remained suspicious. The was a long pause before the King started to talk again:

"I belonged to a brotherhood once myself."

"Then you understand better than anybody," Ciri agreed.

"I do. I'd hoped you can tell us more about your brotherhood."

"We aren't known to people here," Ciri returned to giving reserved and vague answers. First of all, she barely understood what here was. She has heard how people referred to this place as Westeros. Some call this place The North. Some mentioned the Seven Kingdoms. It all about territories yet Ciri has no idea how one differs from the other, where the borders are.

"And our brotherhood has been of the decline," she added. It was all true. Witchers were not know to this world. The number of witcher is only declining due to the line of work and absence of new generations.

"We slay monsters for coin. Protect people from things they can't protect themselves," witcheress had to continue as she saw that it wasn't enough yet.

"We can't pay you," Jon said abruptly.

"Not asking you to," Ciri objected. "I came here by my own free will not for a contract."

"What monsters do you kill?"

"The kind that does not live here. Stories about them would make as much sense to you as a tale meant to scare children."

"You are not from Westeros, then. What brought you here?"

"I decided to go where no one from my brotherhood walked before. I came here only to hear people talking about the Dead that were coming. And then I heard about you recruiting women to fight the army of the Dead."

"Do you know what kills the White Walkers?"

"Wights can be killed with dimeritium, fire and… blood."

Seaworth looked at the woman as she said those words. So oblivious to the meaning. She said the words of House Targaryen like it was nothing. But those words, they carried a meaning here in Westeros. Those words were feared, they brought memories of the old world. The world before the Baratheon's Rebellion, the world under the rule of Mad King. Davos looked at Snow who seemed to be collected about the situation.

"Dimeritium?" asked Jon. He was just as perplexed as Davos was about the word. It had no meaning to them. He doubted it carried a meaning to anyone in Westeros.

"A metal from the fallen stars," the ashen haired woman answered simply.

"How do you know it kills wights?"

"It killed many more before. I am a monster-slayer after all."

The memory sent shivers down her spine. When she first landed in this world, she landed in a snowy desert. It reminded her the Frying Pan but with terrible cold instead of heat. She remembered what it felt like to be there, alone, only white snow around her. It was cold, yes, and it felt dead. It was like standing in the cemetery. Despite being a witcheress, she disliked being in the cemeteries. She often dreams about death and cemeteries are no better reminder. Ciri was travelling with Roach in the desert for a while until dusk. She was ready to travel back to her world when some movement in the distance grabbed her attention. It was getting dark but she could it see what was there. Blazing blue eyes. Such eyes would haunt you in your nightmares. She jumped off the horse, took out her silver sword and waited. Witchers told her that fighting in the light of the moon was better "no sharp shadows. It didn't give her comfort. Roach was a trained horse but still panicked as the wight was coming closer. Ciri teleported behind the wight and punctured dead flash. The wight was impaled but nothing happened. Silver did not bother the dead. Ciri had to teleport back to her mare and change swords. The wight was not eager to fight or resist. Something was not right, but Ciri grabbed her dimeritium sword and stroke. Ice shards hit her cheeks. It was gone. She looked back at her horse. There in the distance Cirilla saw same blazing blue eyes. Lots of them. Yet none of them moved closer. They were watching, they wanted to know something. But Ciri decided not to take risks, she jumped on Roach and rode off, disappearing in the flash of green light.

"What was that about blood?" Snow did not relent.

"Where I come, there is a prophecy about White Frost, a long winter that comes to bond worlds in ice. It says that Elder Blood can stop it," Ciri dropped the part where she had to say "temporary".

"Prophecies," said Davos, "are dangerous things."

"Can't agree more," sighted Ciri. Dangerous and powerful.

"You may stay, Ciri of monster slaying brotherhood," said Jon. Cirilla could tell that his decision was not easy to make. But he weighted it, rethought it over and over again.

"I can't leave my swords at the stables," she thought it was important to make that clear. Jon was silent for a moment.

"I understand, "he said. "So be it. You can take them with you. Tomorrow you will have to prove yourself to be a worthy monster slayer."


	3. We shall fight

Ciri found herself standing on the stone steps. She turned her head to see a castle. A castle like she has never seen before. She stepped down and heard a roar. It was not like any other beast she has ever heard before. Not a basilisk, not even a Royal wyvern. The closest she could compare it was something between a griffin and a golem. The roar did not scare her. It was heard in the distance and seemed almost friendly. She walked, enjoying the view that the dream offered. The sea, the shoreline, the castle, it was breathtaking. She could taste the salt in the air. The soft breeze tickling her face. Ciri saw a man in furs standing on a cliff, watching at the distance. She kept walking. She recognized Jon. He was standing there in furs, though, not a snowflake in sight. She stood still, watching him, as he seemed not to see her. A lion started to approach Jon. It was a lion, half the usual size. Jon did not seem to be bothered or frightened. Ciri saw a lion stopping a few steps away from Snow, looking at the shoreline. Cirilla woke up. It was a peaceful dream, one of the few. She enjoyed it while it lasted. Ciri had to wake up in chill. A band of smoke coming from the burner. The room that was given her was small and remote. The size was a plus since it would warm up faster. Her swords were resting near the bed. The silver one was given to her by Geralt, her first witcher sword named Zireael. The second one was made in Toussaint as a special order. _People think that the steel sword is for humans. They are wrong. The steel sword is made of dimeritium. Some monsters cannot be killed by silver._ She bought her second sword after completing three dangerous yet well-paid contracts. First one was a garkain. Next was a basilisk that decided to hunt on some lord's land. The third was an ekkimara. Vampires, low and high, were fond of Toussaint. Geralt recommended her to write an old witcher saying on it. _The flash that cuts the darkness, the light that breaks the night._ And she did. It was a sign that Geralt was fully acknowledging Ciri's abilities as an independent witcheress. He was so worried when she told him about slaying ekkimara. The woman smiled at sweet memories of her family.

Cirilla saw a man sitting next to her door. He had red hair and beard. Both were unkempt and bushy. He was wearing white and grey hides. Simple hides that were cut and put together, without much skill, to protect from harsh weather of the North. _My guard._ He was not there to protect Ciri, but to protect others from her. She was sure somewhere nearby a second guardsman was hiding, but she did not care about it.

"Grey hair," he greeted her smiling.

"Red hair," she replied in the same manner.

"Grey hair is for old and wise. You are but a wench!"

"Red hair is more attractive on women."

"Sharp one, eh?" the man stood up. Witcheress knew exactly what he was doing. Testing her, trying out her bite. They looked each other in the eye for a few moments. Then a smile appeared on the face of a red-haired man.

"Heard you are some kind of monster slayer," the man said. "Do all monster slayer carry swords on their backs?"

"Yes," Ciri pushed the man aside. Not that she disliked the company that much, she just wanted to see the king. She felt like they had much to discuss. Also, she disliked being stared at for a long time. It made her tiny bit self-conscious about the scar on her face. Though, the man seemed to be much more interested in the colour of her hair and her sword. She could not walk far as a white wolf appeared before her. It was a big white wolf, bigger than those she was used to, with red intelligent eyes. It looked at her curiously while Cirilla was mesmerized. It was a beautiful beast, beautiful and dangerous. The man did not seem to mind the best before them at all. _He knew it would be there._ The woman made a step, the beast growled. She stepped back.

"Ghost!" Ciri heard a familiar voice. Jon Snow appeared around the corner. The wolf obeyed and came to his master. Cirilla looked at the charming couple. _A northern king named Snow and his frightful beast colour of snow. A match made._ She crossed her arms:

"Is this yours?" she looked at the albino wolf.

"Name's Ghost," Snow nodded.

"Quite large for a wolf."

"He's a direwolf."

"That explains it, I guess," Cirilla looked at the king. _Who do you remind me?_

"Do you wish to prove yourself as a swordfighter before or after you break your fast?"

"Let's do it now so I can enjoy my meal."

"Grey hair!" she heard a man's voice behind her. She turned around, though she didn't really want to.

"Good push," the red-haired man grinned. Jon and she left together, a white wolf walking between them. They walked in silence, only Jon's footsteps echoed. The wold was stepping gently so did Ciri. She was a witcher, after all, she knew how to move without making a sound. Snow stopped at some point, the direwolf followed his example. Ciri had to stop as well.

"Ghost, go," he commanded. The wolf understood so much with so little words. It went on its way, knowing exactly where and why. Ciri was impressed by the beast, it seemed magical.

"Pick up a training sword and we'll fight," said Jon, pointing at the courtyard down below. "I'll be back soon."

Cirilla bent over the handrail and looked down. It was early in the morning, people were waking up and gathering together. Yet it still seemed emptier than it was yesterday when she came. Good, more space for them to practice. _Wait. We?_ As of yesterday, Jon Snow was a King in the North. Kings do not fight, they tell their subjects to. She highly doubted that someone overthrown Snow during the night. She heard soft steps approaching her, but not Jon's steps. His were heavier. She turned her head to see a beautiful lady with auburn hair. She was pretty, to say the least. The auburn hair was loose except for two braids on the top of her head. Ciri had her ashen hair in a bun behind her head. If she was on the road for a while, she would cut it herself. When she came home, Yennefer would take care of it. Right now, she could not guarantee her hair to be evenly cut. The woman, no, young lady, almost a girl, was wearing a black dress, mostly hidden under the cloak with furs.

"Lady Ciri," the lady with auburn hair politely smiled. "I am Sansa Stark, Jon's sister."

Cirilla looked at the girl again. Auburn hair and blue eyes didn't quite match the description of Jon Snow. Lady Stark was a beauty, not a single feature to distort her fair face. Well, maybe for her eyes. Blue as they were, there was something behind them. _Anger and hurt_ , Ciri thought. _I know these eyes._

"Cirilla," the ashen-haired woman introduced herself, "but Ciri is more than fine."

"It is," lady Stark continued her attempt at conversation, "nice to meet you in person, lady Ciri."

"It is nice to meet you too, lady Sansa. You are Jon's sister? How come you are Stark and he is Snow?"

"My father, Lord Stark of Winterfell, was married to my mother… Jon's mother was not married to my father," answered Sansa. Ciri could hear the anxiousness in her words, the discomfort it brought her to speak about it. _That's why,_ Cirilla thought. Jon Snow was a child born out of wedlock. He did not have his lord father's name, he carried a name much simpler and much more ordinary. That's why he decided to fight her himself. Because he fought his battles. He is a child born out of wedlock, without titles, without the name. Even the stables of Winterfell weren't his birthright. And he became a king. He ought to know how to fight his battles, he ought to know how to lead people. _The boy with eyes of an outcast. Eyes of an unwanted child._ Cirilla respected Jon for his strong will of overcoming many obstacles to become a king. Yet by looking at the King in the North she could not tell he wanted it. The crown seemed rest heavy on his head.

"You are not from here, are you?" Sansa asked gently.

"No, milady, I am not. Your customs seem…" witcheress paused, choosing a better word than the one she had in mind. "Old."

A smile appeared on lady Sansa's face. Not the polite one, a genuine one. Ciri could tell why as she heard Jon's steps behind her.

"Come along, monster slayer," he called Ciri. She could not tell if he was mocking her or not. Looking at his face, probably not. But the witcheress did not object. She came downstairs right after him. He grabbed a wooden sword and tossed one in the air for her. Cirilla caught it. Jon's eyes were watching her closely, she knew. Every step, every movement was observed. Ciri undid the harness that carried her real sword.

"You move like a cat," Snow noted, pointing at her feet with his training sword.

"Can't say the same about you," the woman shrugged. She saw what she thought was impossible for the King in the North. She saw a smile on his face even for a second. Jon grabbed his sword and prepared himself:

"Ready when you are."

They didn't need to talk. Ciri tightened the grip on the hilt and rushed forward. She jumped, swinging her sword at Jon. He blocked. Another blow, but he dodged. Cirilla turned around swinging her sword with her. Jon parried but was forced to turn around as well. His sword flew over ashen-haired head. He made his first blow but the opponent parried. He succeeded at blocking Ciri's next blow. There was no clash of steel, but the dull sounds wood would make on a hit. The woman was fast, incredibly fast. Snow barely escaped her sword this time. He dodged back, their swords met again. Jon had to make her lose her momentum. Cirilla stopped for a second but quickly changed her position to gain the upper hand again. She jumped, turned around and hit Jon's sword as he was blocking. Another blow from below, but he parried. Ciri whirled, gracefully, with her sword flying, silently cutting the air. He parried again, yet this time he was ready to strike from above. He did but hit the ground. Ciri swirled, escaping his blow. Jon felt as the flat side of the wooden sword tapped on his chest. Snow looked at the ashen-haired woman and saw her smug smile.

"That was good," he admitted.

"Do you want a chance to reconcile, Your Grace?" Ciri bowed. There was a thing about men fighting. They tend to put their chances at the strengths of their blows, not at the speed of their movements. She was trained at Kaer Morhen to be as fast as the human body without witcher mutations would allow her to. It gave her a certain advantage.

"Alright," Jon agreed. He enjoyed the swordplay, it relaxed his mind and gave him the blood rush to warm up the muscles. He knew that Ciri was fast and skillful with a sword. He would not underestimate her again. They walked in a circle. Ciri lifted her sword to be in line with her eyes. Jon was holding his sword with two hands in front of his body. He watched her footwork. Careful, silent, confusing. She moved forward, so did he. Snow refused to give away the first blow to her. The sword met. And again, to no avail. They both decided to step back. Jon decides to strike. She blokes. He strikes again. Blocked. They dance around. Ciri turns around, aiming for Snow's neck with her sword. He barely escaped this one. Before Ciri could position herself, he strikes again. She parries elegantly. He blows again and misses her just by an inch or two. The woman rushed forward with her sword at him. Jon blocks. She moves to the other side, he moves with her. It's not swordplay, it's not a sword training, it's a dance. Cirilla lowered her sword and ran at him. He moved aside, expecting a blow from below, and raised his sword to crush from above. She did not try to hit him when she was close to him. Instead, she whirled, swinging her sword. Jon dodged, seeing Ciri's sword inches away from his neck. His sword crushed just a moment away from the woman's shoulder. She tricked him, otherwise, he would have gotten to her. Their swords crushed one last time. They both lowered their weapons.

"Another good one," Jon said with a smile. "You are a monster slayer."

"You are not so bad yourself, Your Grace," Cirilla returned a smile.


	4. The Long Night is coming

Ciri agreed to help with training women. Negotiation was very simple, as her choice was either do it or, well, find something else to do and be useful. She has never done anything like this before, but she did remember her training at Kaer Morhen. Nothing would be quite like Kaer Morhen. Repeating what she was taught by others isn't that difficult, is it? Most of the day she spent with Ser Davos Seaworth who was telling her everything she needed to know about the castle, the North. She asked her questions carefully, without giving much to go on. Customs she wasn't familiar with, built it seemed nothing she would be in a serious chance of encountering. And when the evening came, Ciri found herself to be invested in a long conversation with Davos and wine. Seaworth was telling her about the Iron Throne, The Wall, the Dead. While the northern lords were uniting to fight the death itself, lords of the south seemed to be fighting among themselves. She could not support conversations about politics simply because she was oblivious to the current state of affairs Yet she didn't mind listening at all. He told her a little bit about everything. The Wall and Night's Watch, the Iron Throne and the Lannisters, Winterfell, and Battle of Bastards, Lords of the North and wildlings. Davos went as far as to explain the geography of Westeros and naming all the important parts of Westeros, where they start and where they end. He told Ciri where he had been before and whom he served. Ciri disclosed some parts of her life as well. She told him she travels a lot, hunts monsters for coin. She told him about the griffin she slew. She told him about her "brotherhood" and that they name themselves witchers. She could not help but notice how careful Davos was forming his questions. He was not interrogating her, he was reading her.

"Why come here?" asked Seaworth, leaning forward. The woman looked at him, studying. The wine started to influence them both.

"Definitely not to enjoy the weather," Cirilla shrugged. "I am a witcheress, I kill monsters. You have…"

"I meant, my lady, why come to Winterfell?"

"This is where the King in the North sits, isn't it?"

"You don't belong to the North."

Ciri sighted. She knew exactly why Davos was questioning this. He was studying her, reading her, trying to fish out as much as possible. But the truth was ever so simple and yet so impossible to understand. She wasn't simply outside of Westeros, this world was foreign to her. She had no personal, deep interests in the riches of this world, the lords that ruled it.

"The chain is shorter this way," the woman with ashen hair said. "I could come to any other northern lord, but all of them serve the King in the North anyway. If they didn't send me here, we would still be getting orders from the king. And I heard some things on the road. Some say there's magic in those castle walls."

"Do you believe it?"

"It would be nice if it was true."

"It would," ser Davos nodded. "You are not here to serve the king."

"N-no. If we survive the dead and win, my job is done. What would you need a monster slayer for when there are no monsters?"

"Why did you become…. a witcher?" the man asked hesitantly. Cirilla nodded to support that it was the name of her brotherhood:

"It's my destiny, yet I chose it," she took a sip. The onion knight looked perplexed by such answer, but she did not mind leaving it at that. After all, didn't she tell them that she can't tell much about the brotherhood? _I need to change the subject._

"What can you tell about your king, Ser Davos?" Cirilla asked, putting down her cup filled with wine. They didn't have glasses or chalices, but it did not matter. She enjoyed listening to Davos, he was a man of age, certainly, he had something to say about the world.

"Jon Snow is an honorable man," Davos answered, "much like his father."

"And that awfully gloomy face?"

Seaworth did not answer, he just smiled. There was something he did not wish to say. Ciri could understand that. After all, there were things she did not wish to make known. At least for now.

"You agreed to serve him," Cirilla murmured, remerging what Seaworth has told her. "It's hard to win the loyalty of a good man as my father would say."

"I am no good man," calmly protested Davos.

"I can see by the lack of fingertips that you are no saint, Ser Davos, yet here you are, ready to fight a battle you can very well lose. You are here not for the gold, not for the glory, titles or land."

Jon was standing in the doorway, watching and listening to these two. He was looking for Ser Davos, and he found him. Yet not in the state he would expect. Ciri was sitting with his back to him, so he shouldn't worry about her noticing him. The darkness also favoured his unnoticed presence. Even if Davos did see him, he did not acknowledge it.

"And your father?" asked Davos. Jon could tell that the wine was getting at onion knight's head.

"What… what about my father?" Ciri asked. The wine was getting at her even harder. For some reason, it amused Jon. Two people that have nothing in common and had barely knew each other were drinking and sharing stories. As if they knew each other in a long time, but he was not deceived. Davos Seaworth was a wise man.

"Is he in the brotherhood too?" as a matter-of-factly asked Davos.

"Aye," nodded Ciri, "he is. He is my father by choice. He took me in, cared for me, trained me. He…" she suddenly went silent as if she was about to say too much.

"He seems like an honorable man," said Davos with a smile on his face.

"Name's Geralt and he is honorable. To the bones."

A woman's laugh filled the room. Snow, who was standing in the doorway, was just as surprised by the sudden outburst as lord Seaworth.

"And he does wear a gloomy face quite often," she said through her laugh. Davos suppressed his laugh. Whether it was because Davos knew he was here or because he thought it inappropriate to laugh at your king, but Jon noticed that.

A white wasteland. A snowy desert. White snow as far as the eye could see. Ciri was standing there all alone. The sun is above her head. Not a howl, not a whisper. It was quiet, terrifyingly quiet. She turned around and saw it. The Wall. The icy wall was shining in the sunlight. She started walking towards the massive structure. The wind was growing stronger every step she made. Suddenly the shadow has fallen. Cirilla lifted her head and saw only the darkness of the sky. The Wall, however, was glowing like a distant candle in the dark. She kept walking, the wind was turning into a storm, dancing and whirling around her. A strong push from the back makes her fall on the snow. Her hands, though, covered in gloves, feel frozen. She tries to get up but cannot. Her whole body is frozen stiff in fear of sudden realization. In the wind there were whispers. Men, women or children, she couldn't tell. There were so many voices and they all were whispering the same thing. _Bosys bantis amāzis, se morghor zijomy amāzis._ Ciri got up, her hands feeling abnormally cold. She made a few steps and heard the changes in voices. They sounded louder and more… fearful. _Bosys bantis amāzis, se morghor zijomy amāzis!_ Darkness and snow surrounded her. She had to keep going. _BOSYS BANTIS AMĀZIS, SE MORGHOR ZIJOMY AMĀZIS!_ A roar in the distance, nothing like she has ever heard despite hunting basilisks and forktails. She had to look back and saw it. The White Walker that was leading the army of the dead stood in the distance. It was looking at her with its blazing blue eyes. It didn't have the hungry eyes of wights, it didn't have that mindless gaze. It had horrifying yet intelligent blue eyes. A cloud of smoke was hanging above the White Walker. Ciri woke up with a scream. She was cold and sweaty. _The dream._ Ciri could not forget the cold and fear she experienced in the dream. Triss Merigold once said Cirilla was a Source, a transmitter. Every time the girl fell into a trans, she was as if possessed by something. Something wanted to get in touch with her, to take control over her and tell her something. It took years for Ciri to fully understand the meaning behind sorceress's words. Whatever she was transmitting this time, she did not like it. The feeling that the dream brought her was of fear and cold. And whatever it was… it was powerful. The words, however, didn't carry any meaning to her.

 _"Bosys bantis amāzis, se morghor zijomy amāzis,_ " Cir repeated under her breath. "Just a drunk dream," she said to herself, looking for comfort no one was there to offer her. It did not work. She could not reassure herself it was just a drunk dream, a nightmare. Nightmares don't talk to you, don't make your hands cold. She could not go back to sleep, so she did what she did best and what would help her to forget about the dream.


	5. Trouble

She was sitting in the armory, caring for her sword. The shining of the steel calmed her mind. _A witcher never forgets to care for his sword._ As time went by, Cirilla started to hear more people outside. The day was breaking, the castle was coming to life. They were walking, talking, running, shouting. More people were coming in the armory. A war needed soldiers, soldiers needed training. Ciri knew she had to go soon, her peace was disturbed. But she would appreciate another five minutes of peace and quite to come down from her dream. She wished to dream of home. Of warmth and things that make it all worthwhile.

For Winterfell was not at all like Kaer Morhen. The witcher's castle had, surprisingly, more life to it. At least, it used to, in her memories. The great structure must be abandoned now. Vesemir died, Eskel and Lambert came to Covo Bianco, where Geralt was residing now. The castle was living its timid life among the forest and the mountains like it belong there, a part of the natural world. And if it remains untouched, the winds will turn it into dust. The stones of the tower will settle on the ground. And the circle will complete. Something ends, something begins. But Winterfell stood like a stone giant, a rock troll among the snow, waiting for something. It felt like halted death. Kaer Morhen was quiet, but the sounds were there. Mice in the walls; the winds traveling in between the wooden pellets. It was talked to. In spring the birds would be heard. Kaer Morhen was alive because outside the tall walls was life. Winterfell was harsh and dreary. It didn't talk – whispered. Those whispers were of secrets and ghosts.

In the courtyard, girls and women training, trying themselves at sword fighting. There were many of them, women, mothers, young girl and children forced to grow up fast. Cirilla watched. Some were too young to hold a sword yet. Some were too weak, knowing needles and kitchen knifes their whole life. Servant girls, Ciri knew the type. Some girls were simply terrified of the sword. Not surprising, considering what Ciri has heard about the castle. What she saw around the castle. There was a siege not long ago. Many of the young ones must have witnessed it. There was no point in training those who were too feeble or too scared. Time sure could kill the fear and strengthen the body, but time was little to spare. They had to be directed somewhere else. The fighter who was training them was not giving up though. The girls were shown how to do it again and again, but not many repeated it.

"I'll make you a deal," Cirilla said, approaching the warrior, "you can take them as your pupils and train them all you want if we live to see another year. But no all of them can learn to wield a sword, not with the time we have."

The warrior turned to her, a steak of short blonde hair falling on the right side of her face. Her face. It was a woman. Tall, with broad shoulders, covered in armor that would suit a knight. And it was her.

"They all should learn how to defend themselves," the woman replied. She measured who was before her, it was a very deliberate, studying gaze. The witcheress was used to curious eyes, subtle examinations of her. People wanted to know, no blame there. Yet this woman didn't try to hide it. And there was a flicker in her eyes as if noticed something important but Ciri could only guess what it was.

"I agree," witcheress nodded, returning the favour of an open examination. The blonde woman was a head taller and probably twice her frame. She didn't look or speak like other women around the castle. Wrong accent, fair hair that wasn't common among the servant girls. An outcast here just as she is.

"But look at them," witcheress continued, pointing at the group of young girls who struggle the most. The smallest, youngest girls who struggled with the weight of training words. And among them those who shook, loosely grasping the hilt in fear.

"Time could help shape them but there isn't much."

"Alright," the armor-clad woman nodded. There was no sincerity in her voice, but neither was she lying. She was resistant, that's all. The warrior woman gestured the group of girls to store their training swords and step closer.

"You will follow…"

"Ciri."

"Brienne of Tarth," the female knight nodded.

All of the girls followed her, but none seemed at ease by the change. It wasn't hard to miss where the archery training has been happening. You could find it with your eyes closed. _'Nock, draw, lose!'_ They must be progressing quite fast. And they were. Boys were trained as a military. Nocking, drawing, losing in synch. After they all picked their only arrows and the same would happen again and again.

"Hey!" Ciri shouted, approaching the man who was giving out commands.

"You have a new flock," she gestured at the group that was watching archers. The man in command was tall, lean and old. Dark hair, dark eyes and long, narrow face with hollow cheeks. Long, broken nose, a missing tooth, patchy beard.

"All yours," the man replied. "Those boys already know their way around the bow. Sons of hunters, archers, guards… Easy job."

"Well then, pair them and let them help each other."

"And why should I do that?" he crossed his arms in defiance.

"They can't fight with a sword."

"You better teach them then!" A loud, mocking laugh from the master archer. It was so loud it attracted attention from everywhere. The man was taunting, smirking in the face of a woman.

"They can't," Cirilla spit, emphasizing her words. He was deliberate in his slight, and Ciri was quick to sense it. What mattered to him is that she was a woman and a stranger in this place. Powerless, ostracized. A stranger. And if she touched her sword or laid a hand on him, there would be guards. There would be King to serve justice to someone who didn't belong and took up a sword against one of them. She didn't belong and neither was she important.

"Then why are you making it my problem?" he shooed her away with a gesture. "Unless the King in the North says so, they can break their back for what I care."

Her first instinct was to punch him in the face and pair up his missing tooth. But he would likely to fight back, and, thought the temptation is strong, she decided against it. She shot daggers at the man, puffed and walked away in cold rage. A man who listened only to a man. This world so strangely familiar in all its flaws. They fight with swords, they eat bread and drink wine. There are lords and ladies, the poor and downtrodden. Their language is so familiar yet so strange. Words that are bound only to this world, to express the thing that could happen only here. And of course, men that accept only the authority of a man. She will find the King in the North if she could find Davos. She told the girl to stay there and not move an inch even if told to. She walked around the castle, listening to the whispers carried through the walls. She caught find of Ser Davos near the North gate. And with him was not the King but the wildling. They saw her coming, to be precise, the wildling did.

"Grey hair," the red-haired man said with a grin on his face. He was too happy to see her, and she completely didn't understand why. Another man grinning at her today.

"Red hair," Cirilla responded, weary of wilding's ways. Perhaps Ser Davos was perceptive, or he found it unbecoming, but he decided to step in. He coughed, drawing attention, and stopping both from talking.

"Ciri, you must have met Tormund Giantsbane," Seaworth spoke.

"Acquainted."

"Ciri Monsterslayer, is it?" Tormund asked.

"Just Ciri," she shook her head and turned to Davos, intentionally excluding the wildling man from the conversation. "I'm looking for His Grace."

"I have not seen Lord Snow since morning," the older man answered.

"There aren't many places he could be," red-haired man interfered again. It seemed to Ciri that the man was intentionally ignoring all the signs that she wasn't particularly fond of his ways around her. But he seemed to know something.

"If he's not seen, he's brooding somewhere," he continued, "the woods, the Underthing…"

"The Crypts," Davos corrected.

"I guess I'll try there," the woman was ready to leave.

"You wouldn't advise going down there," Ser Seaworth said calmly. "The Crypts of Winterfell are… for the Stark family."

"And the woods?"

"A sacred place for those who believe in Old Gods."

"If you see him before me, tell him there's a problem with a few archers."

Cold rage was wrapping its clawed hands around the young witcheress. Lord Snow knew how to hide when he wished to not be found. A place where only those of faith could go, but that would mean that not many would dare to speak of matters unpleasant in the place of Gods. And the Crypts where the members of his own family were buried. Not many would dare to step in a place like that. Dedicated to Lords and Ladies of the past. Full of ghosts and death. indeed designed for brooding alone. She would not search the woods. Ciri practiced no religion, believed on no god, but she could hold respect for those who did and the rituals that came with it. Also, the woods could take much time. But the Crypts would have one door, one stairway. She was not familiar with the castle, but Davos spoke a great deal about it. She knew that it was in the oldest part of Winterfell. It wasn't hard to figure out the oldest part of Winterfell, it stood out for everyone to see. It wasn't even a long walk. The only problem is that she was more than reluctant to go there. The oldest part of Winterfell felt abandoned and tragic. The Broken Tower, Davos called it, was silent yet melancholic. Green eyes watched the top of the tower, collapsed and untouched since then. One could say the tower was brooding too. The great black door was the way to the Crypts, she figured. But under the gaze of the Broken Tower, the witcheress didn't wish to go down to the Crypts or even as much as touch the black, heavy door. It didn't feel wrong or unwelcoming. It felt dangerous. The tower cannot scare her away. The tower cannot look down on her. She stayed there, waiting because she knew Jon Snow was underneath, in the Crypts, with the dead.

* * *

"What are you doing here?" the voice asked, pulling her out of the trance. She only closed her eyes for what seemed like five minutes or so. The woman opened her eyes and looked at the man before her. Jon Snow, in his black furs and leather, brooding expression has not yet disappeared. His loyal beast beside him, watching her with blood red eyes. Funny how the wolf seemed to be a much joyful creature when beside his master. Lord Snow stood there, towering above her, with an expression that Geralt would wear often. Only in a place like this, one could understand that Winterfell was wrapped in melancholy more than in fear.

"Waiting for you, Your Grace," the ashen-haired woman replied sternly, getting up. "There's a problem with a few archers."

"What's the problem?" he asked, looking away from her.

"They aren't being trained."

"Alright," he sighed, defeated, tired. The woman with a scar smiled and a wicked fire flickered in green eyes.

Witcheress walked behind him, starting to feel sulky as well. Perhaps it was a contagious state within those castle walls. But she didn't sulk, she was jittery, delighted almost by what was about to happen. She was ready to savour the moment. They were approaching the archer's range, as Ciri heard the man who slighted her shouting the same commands, but now he was giving them faster. But when Lord Snow walked, it seemed all the voices died. He carried a certain silence about him. He commanded silence. And he did it most appropriately – without words. Cirilla stood beside him, spotting the girls. They obeyed her order word to word. They seemed to not have moved a step.

"Your Grace," the master archer spoke with a slight bow. The boys stopped their practice as well, lowering the bows and greeting the King. Snow stopped in his tracks – too far from the man Ciri took no liking in – looking around, calculating the situation.

"Why aren't the girls training?" Jon asked plainly.

"They are supposed to learn sword fighting," the man replied.

"They can't fight with a sword," Cirilla spoke loudly, challenging.

"Why can't they?" Jon asked much quitter, urging her to lower her voice as well.

"Some are delicate, the others are scared," she replied in a whisper. "They can't wield a sword. But you can't just dismiss them."

Her eyes caught his dark gaze. Eyes so dark, they seemed black but calm and surveying. Those dark eyes, much like his face, betrayed nothing.

"You train them," Lord Snow spoke, composed and cold. "Those who show no improvement will be taught aiding the wounded."

"Yes, Your Grace," the man vowed in compliance. Cirilla smiled, victorious and impish was the glint in her eyes.

"You," Snow fully turned to her, "go back," he commanded. Yet there was a glimmer in those dark eyes that wasn't there before.

"Yes, Your Grace."

* * *

They had to start from the very bottom, from theory. How to hold a sword, how to use the body to make a blow. And what is the center of gravity. Ciri is not the only one involved in training women. And Brienne of Tarth. Cirilla took a liking to her. The female fighter was strong, knew how to fight with honor and was very patient with her teachings. For now, their mutual efforts have succeeded at stopping the girl from dropping their swords on a hit, parrying, and striking. But all those movements were slow, unpolished and lacked confidence. But that could be worked on with time that they have. Brienne nodded in approval of the overall success. Some girls smiled, some nodded, some did nothing at all. It's strange how younger ones were more eager to fight than those who were approaching adulthood. Older ladies and mothers acted like they had no choice but do it. They paired them, by age and height, it was almost perfect, only one group of three was training together. Ciri felt somebody's eyes on her briefly. A fleeting look. She looked up and saw Jon Snow. He was standing above the courtyard with Sansa and Davos. They were standing above the courtyard, opposite of where they were training, and it looked like they were discussing something. The ashen-haired woman could not tell if Jon was still looking at her, but she nodded to let him know she was aware of him. Snow did not react.

"We should give them a break," said Brienne. The other woman agreed without speaking. The command was given for them to stop and catch their breaths. Ciri was doing the same. Teaching was harder on her mind than she would have guessed. She understood Lambert's scathing nature during her training. He wasn't without humor but none of the witchers expressed great leniency when it came to training.

"Are you a knight?" the ashen-haired woman asked her partner. Yet her eyes were flickering back and forth between the armored woman and the people above. Their conversation was still going but, based on the little movements they displayed now, it was coming to an end. Each party was readying themselves to leave. _What were they discussing? Here, in the open?_

"A woman cannot be a knight," Brienne replied evenly. She must have heard and said it often to not be swayed by it. It was too flat a response to not be bothering.

"The man who is training archers," Brienne spoke again. "He will _neglect_ the girls."

"I don't think so, I think he would be too afraid," she answered. "His Grace gave orders himself."

The last detail was unnecessary, but the witcheress could not resist adding it for the smug effect.

"But we should check on them every now and then," she added.

Brienne's blue eyes watched her and again, the familiar recognition obvious in them. _They all see it in me, yet none speak of it._ As if she reminded them of something, maybe even someone, but none dare to speak their name.

"What is it?" she prompted. If there was someone who would tell without deceit, it would be this woman.

"You all seem to recognize something in me," the woman pushed, frustrated.

"Your hair," Lady of Tarth said, slowly, carefully. "Targaryens are famous for their silver. Yours comes close."

"I know very little about the land. Ser Davos told me some things. Is that the royal family that people rebelled against?"

"House Targaryen ruled Westeros for three hundred years. And your eyes are green like Lannister's."

 _Cercei Lannister. Ser Davos mentioned current Queen of Westeros. Unloved. Disliked. Mistrusted. Despised, even._

"Is there anything about me that people here would find likable?" Cirilla laughed.

"I'm afraid not much. Only the way you carry your sword."

"What do you mean?"

"Ser Arthur Dayne, a great knight, carried his sword Dawn slung across his back."

Ciri was ready to say something but saw that Lord Snow, Lady Sansa, and Ser Davos left. Each went their separate way. Asking would not give her answers and the castle doesn't speak. But it does whisper. That brief second of her distraction cost her greatly. Brienne turned around and told the girls to pick up their swords and start practicing again. _Ser Arthur Dayne, a knight who carried a sword on his back._ She might just ask for a good night tale from Ser Davos.

* * *

The ashen-haired woman was training alone at the courtyard in almost silence. The sound of steel cutting the air, an occasional crunch of the snow under her feet. She could not help it, if she had to jump or leap, the snow would crunch in betrayal. But in between, there were moments that it was quiet enough to hear woman's breath. The sword was cutting through the air with a whistle. Pirouette, swing, dodge…The sword was signing in the air. Out of breath, she stopped. Quiet and empty the castle stood in the dark. She lowered her sword and looked down. _Snow._ A strand of ashen hair fell on her eyes. _I should get some sleep_. She was getting physically tired, but her mind was not ready for sleep at all. She feared to fall asleep again. Because the nightmare will return, she knew. The world would speak to her, the magic or perhaps, the ghosts of this castle. But they would speak, and she didn't know how to listen to them. Her mind was drifting to different places, different things, different people. Especially one person. The King in the North. Jon Snow. _Snow_.

"Training in the night? "said a voice from above. Familiar husky voice with a strong northern accent. She was getting used hearing people speak this way. Ciri shook her head. Jon Snow was standing up there, on the ramparts, watching her. She did not like it.

"Aye, Your Grace."

Jon was in his usual brooding mood, wearing his frown face. Yet now he seemed more troubled and tired than he was in the morning. _Something happened,_ concluded Ciri. Jon said nothing else and neither did she. Ciri was looking at him from down below, but Snow wasn't looking at her. He was looking straight ahead as if Cirilla's presence was never acknowledged by him. Witcheress sheathed her sword. The King still seemed more invested in his thoughts. Ciri decided to go up to him and... well, she did not know what for yet. But she felt like she needed to thank him for his help and ask him for a favour.

"Your Grace," the ashen one started. "Thank you for today, but I must ask…"

Ciri stopped talking abruptly. She talked to him and Jon seemed to listen. Yet he did not look at her once, did not recognize her presence. Cirilla did not appreciate when her words were treated with silence. She looked at Jon. His hands were placed on the rails. He wore his usual attire. The white hilt of the sword could be seen hanging on his left. Ciri walked behind him, watching him from behind. His dark curls tied in a knot at the back his head. Geralt has been keeping his hair in a similar way as of late. Only now did it strike her. The resemblance. The brooding and frowning, the eyes of an outcast, the weariness. They all seemed familiar because she knew someone who has all of it.

"Snow," Ciri said, coming from the other side next to Jon, placing her hands on the rails. Jon turned his head at her sudden words:

"What?"

"Snow," the woman lifted her head slightly. She did not look at the man beside her, she was looking straight ahead. Jon followed her eyes and understood. It has started to snow. It was a light snowfall, almost invisible in the dark.

"Aye," he nodded, "snow, my lady. She was surprised that he addressed her so formally."

"I am not your lady," the woman chuckled.

"Ser Davos is no fool. And I grew up among noble lords and ladies," Jon looked at the woman beside him and chuckled too. _He knows._ But if they knew all along, why only now does he acknowledge it?

"Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown," she said, turning around and resting against elbows on the rails. Jon gave her a meaningful yet gloomy look. She was surprised by his reaction. It wasn't anger, it was not irritation. Snow was not offended. He was confused.

"What?" she asked, turning away from him. "I am a strange woman with a scar on my face and a sword on my back. Not so many people talk to me."

"Many are wary of a monster slayer."

"But you are not."

"I am not. Also, if you say something I do not like, I can execute you without any consequences. No lord will be offended, no family will seek revenge. What was it you were going to ask for?"

"The man refused to train them because they were girls. There are many women in the castle, who speaks for them? They need to be encouraged that someone will listen to their plight, and someone will do something about it."

"Alright," Jon agreed, "I shall look into it."

"Thank you, my lord."

She knew she would antagonize His Grace with her formality. And it worked like a charm. Lord Snow showed her the way, very literally, showing her to walk to the courtyard and leave him be. Ciri bowed and politely left, deciding that it was time to return to her room. The nights in Winterfell are cold. And full of ghosts.

* * *

She was running. Feet sinking in deep snow, slowing her down. And she is terrified. The Wall is ahead of her and she is running towards it. But it is not the Wall she saw before. This one is not made of ice. This is dark and smoky. It's not just wall that she is running to. It's a castle. It smells like salt air and smoke. Large and fearsome, yet it grows warmer the closer she is to the castle. The snow disappearing under her feet, melting away. This is not Winterfell that she is running towards, she knows. She must continue to run for if she stops, they are lost. Gone forever. _Who are they?_ The answer comes in a roar. Loud and gruesome but she is not afraid of it this time. It only reassures her that she must be getting close. Green and soft is the grass under her boots. The castle stands before her in its might. Something is inside it and she must find it as soon as possible. Inside the castle, echoes ran ahead, making her presence known. But the stone floor of the castle fell through. The darkness swallowed her whole. And then came pain she's never known. _Ciri, please._ A plea was falling from cold lips. _Ciri. Please._ Cold lips are begging her to leave. She wakes up instead. She wasn't terrified as she was last time. No, she was, but not for her life. She knew she was dying in there, in her dream. But the fear didn't get her there. It's their lives she was fearful for. And she didn't even know who they were. She knew one thing: dreams of castles and towers were never a good sign.

* * *

Brianne greeted her warmly this time. Or perhaps the northern treatment makes any other treatment warmer in comparison.

"Lady Sansa took it upon herself to see over the training," Brienne informed. "She asked for any aid we can provide."

The lord had been acting fast upon request. Ciri admired that about both of them. Lady Sansa caring about her people, her women, handmaidens, and seamstresses that needed to pick the art of war. And Lord Snow listening to a strange woman with a sword on her back. She is not his subject, not a northerner. But he listened.

"That's good," she replied unswayed.

"Yes," Lady of Tarth stood herself right in front of the female witcher. "No one would dare to mistreat those girls," she was looking right into Ciri's eyes. The shorter woman could only nod in agreement. But the blue eyes of the knight were not letting her go.

"I came to ask about it in the morning, unwanting to burned my lady with so many concerns," the taller woman continued, "but Lady Sansa already knew."

Reply never came. The younger woman kept to her silence, but her eyes were not afraid of the blue gaze.

"Let's begin," Brienne said, easing her gaze, paying respectful nod of her head. Ciri could have easily missed it. Before the girls would all come to the courtyard, the women decided to demonstrate a few things that every swordfighter would know. How to make your opponent lose their balance. One way to win a fight – make them lose their footing. Once they are not standing firmly on the ground, it's time to strike. They would repeat it, ask a question and then go on helping other girls. It would be another long day of training. But today they'd need more break. The girls were not as active as yesterday, their bodies were tired, muscles torn and tired. But it was needed, Ciri knew too well. Brienne was correcting mistakes, Ciri overlooking no one started to make them. And today they needed to be reminded of their breathing. Fighting is no different from running or dancing, there must be rhythm, she said, and there must be breathing. Next few days would be the hardest. They mustn't break them nor could they go easy on them. But above them was walking Lady Sansa with her auburn hair catching an occasional ray of sunlight. A lady of her word.

"Wrong," Cirilla shouted and stooped two girls sparring, "wrong. Breathe out when lading a strike."

Young girl with large golden-brown eyes was barely above Ciri's waistline. She walked behind the girl and grabbed the training sword, placing her hands above the smaller ones.

"Breathe in," witcheress said, guiding the sword up, "And breathe out," she did so as the sword was coming down. The girl actively nodded to show that she understood her mistake. Ciri stepped aide, letting them continue. Perhaps they could turn this into a very militarized training. They would command them when to breathe, when to land a strike and when to parry. But that would not benefit the older ones who were progressing faster. Or it would neglect the needs of the younger ones. Lady Sansa past them already, but in her place appeared a man. A man Cirilla hadn't met before and better for it. The man she saw above… Shorter than many, slender. He moved like a cat, a shadow among men who were taller, stronger. She didn't know him and she didn't want to.


	6. Dangerous and treacherous men

"Interesting, isn't she?" Lord Baelish asked. Sansa spared him a glace before returning her eyes back to the courtyard. Two women were sparring and with real swords at that.

"No," Stark responded.

"You don't think she might be a spy, an assassin?" the man asked, raising a brow. Lady Stark didn't answer, just given him another cold stare.

"Most wise of you," Petyr smiled. "But I'm afraid all I know is that she was spotted in Barrowtown and Cerwyn. You'd think a young, ashen-haired woman travelling alone would make an impression."

"Is that all you could find, Lord Baelish?"

"I'm afraid that is all there is to this woman."

"It's not," stated Lady Sansa.

"Able with a sword, yet her fighting style isn't something I recognize."

"You don't, Lord Baelish?" Sana asked. If not for a glint in her eyes and not for the faint smile in the corner of her mouth, no one would be able to guess the mocking in her words.

"I am not a fighter, my lady," Lord Baelish humbly admitted, "but I do have eyes."

Lady Sansa watched the two women closely now. What was there that she couldn't see? What did Lord Baelish see that she missed? She knew little to nothing about the art of swordplay. All she could point is her speed. Cirilla wasn't moving like Brienne, she was quicker. She was lighter on her feet. Sansa noticed the lack of heavy armor on the witcheress. She didn't strike as often as the Tarth woman, but when she did it was precise and lethal. If they weren't fighting in good spirits, Sansa was seriously doubting Lady Brienne's victory. And like the echo, Lord Petyr's word sounded in her head. _Interesting, isn't she?_ Perhaps, sensing her doubts, Lord Baelish spoke up again:

"Do you consider it wise to let her stay here?"

"Do you doubt my brother's decision, Lord Baelish?"

"Your brother tends to trust people more than any man in his position has the luxury to," Lord Baelish corrected himself. But Sansa knew how careful he could be with words. He could mince and trade them to fit his agenda.

"If she was sent to kill you or the King in the North, what a better way to do it but to gain trust?" said Petyr Baelish.

She took off her gloves, throwing another look at Lord Baelish. The man could sell his words to anyone, even most distrusting people, but she had to admit there was some truth in those minced words of his.

* * *

 _It will soon be sundown,_ Ciri thought, observing the shadows softening and growing. Brienne fought like a beast, Ciri had to admit. But Ciri knew how to slay beasts. And an excellent sparring partner. There were only two issues. One being the man Cirilla spotted in the corners, watching them. Tormund Gaintsbane is the name. The other issue was a man who walked like a shadow. He was talking with Lady Stark not so long ago, but she was gone now. But he remained there. And the witcheress knew when she was being watched. Cirilla was ready to defiantly meet the man's curious gaze set on her.

"His name is Lord Petyr Baelish," Brienne of Tarth said quietly. "Littlefinger."

"I don't like him," the witcheress replied.

"You shouldn't."

"Who is he?"

"A dangerous and treacherous man."

Ciri could agree with this much. Lord Baelish's prying eyes were sending chills down her spine.

"My lady," said Podrick, coming to them. Brienne shot him a warning stare. He apologetically smiled. It was now time for his training. He was instructed to observe their fight, and Ciri was curious about what he saw. But she won't ask. Though, it amused her how shy the young man would be around any woman except for Lady of Tarth.

"Hello Pod," Ciri said with a smile.

"M'lady," he said with a bow.

No one bowed to her here. She was some woman with a sword, who spoke too much of herself, knew nothing of Westeros, served no one and was coming from nowhere. But Podrick always bowed to her. Brienne said it's because one thing was obvious about Ciri is her noble birth. Anyone who was born in a noble house could see, anyone who served a member of a noble family directly could see it.

"Show what you are made of, Pod," Cirilla said cheerily. It was now her time to receive a warning look from Brienne. Ciri smiled widely and innocently, shrugging the blame.

"I-I'll do my best, m'lady," Payne said, confused and embarrassed.

"I'll leave you to it then," she said with a wave of her hand.

The days were surely getting shorter. And it was happening unnaturally fast. Bad omens. Ciri was sitting on the rails overlooking the courtyard. A step. Another one. Light and gentle yet quick. Hurried even. A woman. Cirilla turned her head to see Lady Sansa, stopping in her track upon being discovered.

"Lady Sansa," Ciri politely bowed with her head.

"Lady Ciri," the woman replied. "Surprising to see you out here," he tone even, ever-so-slightly accusing.

"Why?"

"It's cold and dark outside."

"So it seems. Isn't it dark and cold for you too?" the witcheress raised a brow. The woman's expression didn't fault her emotions. It's the almost unnoticeable half-asleep back of hers that did it. Almost unnoticeable under her dress, her proud stature compensated for it. But Ciri could see the slight change in the shadow of Lady Stark.

"Can I ask you a question?" Lady Stark asked, compensating for her mistake and stepping closer now.

"Ah, sure," Ciri nonchalantly agreed.

"Why come North?"

Lady Sansa's question was simple and reasonable. But her eyes were piercing and distrusting. Cirilla drew a deep breath and exhaled loudly. It is exhausting to have to prove yourself to those stubborn people. It was exhausting to answer the same question.

"To fight against the Army of the dead," she answered, exasperated. There was a semblance of a smile on Stark's face.

"Pardon me, you sounded just like my brother," Sansa said, with the same faint smile. "Is that all?"

"That is all," the witcheress confirmed. "M'lady," she hastily added in forgetfulness.

"You've seen the dead?" Sansa asked, standing right beside another woman.

 _With a good push, she can send me flying,_ Ciri thought.

"I have."

"You don't owe North anything. You pledged no loyalty and serve no northern house, Lady Ciri."

"Do I have to? To fight for the living?"

"No," Lady Stark answered sincerely. "But don't expect us to trust you then."

"Us?"

Sansa smiled bitterly and walked away. Ciri watched her leave, sighing. She could count those who didn't belong to the North on her fingers. But as Lady Sansa took her leave, someone else followed her careful steps. The man who walked like a shadow. Cirilla smirked, putting the pieces together.

"Pardon me, my lord," she said, getting off the rails. She jumped right in front of Petyr Baelish who didn't appear startled at all. His eyes were laughing. He looked more like a satisfied cat. If it couldn't get the bird, it would get a mouse then.

"Lady Ciri," he said with a smile. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you."

"I believe we were not formally introduced."

"Ah, forgive me, Lord Petyr Baelish, Lord Protector of the Vale," he said. His smile was poisonous, his eyes still laughing.

"I do not know where that is," Ciri shrugged. That was no lie, she could barely remember what was where in Westeros. Ser Davos did her a service to tell about this land, but, without a map, it was all loose knowledge attached to nothing. The man laughed; his eyes didn't.

"I have heard about you, Lady Ciri," the man said with the same poisonous smile.

"Did you now?"

"Yes," he nodded, "you'd be surprised how these walls talk."

"What do they say?" Cirilla asked, crossing her arms.

 _Stephan Skellen, is that your filthy shadow stalking me through time and space?_

"They say you came from afar," the man answered. His hand coming behind his back. A rather welcoming gesture yet so deceiving. The witcheress moved out of his way, curious if he would find a way out of this situation now that she gave him the way.

"They do not lie, those walls," the woman confirmed, resting her back against a cold wall.

"May I ask where you are from?" Baelish asked. His laughing eyes surveying everything at once.

"As the walls said, from afar."

"Braavos then?" he asked. He sounded almost hopeful to Cirilla. He was making a guess. She'd have to remember to ask about Braavos someone who might now. Someone who had sailed across seas.

"Think further, m'lord," she answered with a smile. Lord Baelish smiled in return. Same polite and poisonous smile. Ciri didn't like him even more so now. Those laughing eyes and poisonous smiles and careful words. And predator-like behaviours. Laughing eyes darted across space, where Lady Sansa seemed to be headed. Something in him changed for a brief second, but Ciri could not place what exactly happened.

"It is late, m'lady, you and I both deserve our rest for tonight," Petyr said with a polite bow. Ciri smiled, tight-lipped. Her eyes laughing this time. Baelish left the same way he came: walking like a shadow. Ciri watched him walk away, disappearing among the shadow and darkness, where she guessed the man felt too comfortable.

"You've met Lord Baelish," said Lady Stark, emerging from a dark passageway.

"Pleasant man."

"Many would disagree with you," a slight smirk on her face.

"And you?" the witcheress asked. The expression on Lady Sansa's face came to the same cold and ungiving one. Her blue eyes are deep pools like a frozen lake. On the surface they are unfeeling, emotionless, frozen over. Yet Ciri had no doubt that underneath that cold were moving waters. They shared a silence only two women can share. A mutual understanding of another man's nature of the unpleasant kind.

"You didn't have to stop him," she said empathetically.

"He's a creep," Cirilla protested gently. Sansa didn't agree or disagree, just looked away for a moment. But then her eyes came back to Ciri. And Ciri knew when someone was looking at her scar. Their eyes met for a moment, speaking of nothing. Lady Sansa half-bowed to her and left. Her hair catching the soft light of the burning torches along her path. She could not be hidden by the shadows like the man who stalked her.

* * *

She dreamt of cold dark corridors. Blue torches barely illuminated the way for her. With one of the burning torches from the wall, she walked among cold stone walls. Space is empty, yet her steps didn't echo. Almost as if she was walking on freshly fallen snow. A turn, another, and then one more. But it didn't matter where she turned, she never arrived anywhere. It's an endless labyrinth in cold and darkness. Perhaps this was death. It smelled like death and dust in here. Wherever she was, she felt no fear in here, and that may be wrong. She stepped on a rusted sword, forgotten. As the further she walked, the less light was offered to her. Blue-lit torch flickering, its fire dying. Yet there was no other option but to walk further and further into pitch blackness. Her guiding light finally dying out. And when the darkness finally swallowed her whole, she heard the stone break. Again, and again and again. The torches along the walls lit up with intense blue fires. And the terror came with it.

* * *

In the morning, beside her doorway, Ciri found someone she never thought she would. A little girl, waiting, crouched on the floor, waiting. She was one of the girls in sword-training if her eyes were not deceiving.

"What are you doing here?" the witcheress asked, surprised and disturbed. The girl looked u at her, anger obvious on her face.

"Me sis," she said, "me sis is with the arrow boys."

Cirilla lowered herself to the girl level:

"Your sister is in the archery, so you miss her?"

"No," the girl defiantly said, "me sis is hungry all the time. Because she can't get her arrows."

"She's hungry because she can't shoot?"

"She can shoot but she's wrong all the time!"

The girl was fighting hot and angry tears. Ciri sighed, calming the girl with a pat on her head. She waited for her to calm down, asked for more details and told her to go home. Her mother would deal better with the tears and anger. Ciri's first instinct was to go the man herself and punch him in the face for mistreating a girl like that. But Lady Sansa's words stopped her. They'll never trust some stranger and attacking one of their own wouldn't do her any good. But Lady Sansa decided to overlook that treatment of the women in training herself. She ought to keep her word.

It was bloody early in the morning, but Brienne was already testing her squire. He was slow to progress, but his progress was steady and sure.

"Nope," said Brienne after landing another blow on the squire. Podrick grunted, frustrated by his own mistake. Ciri stopped to watch them for a few moments. On the opposite side of her, Tormund Giantsbane was making his way towards Podrick. Ciri rubbed her forehead tormented by the situation that was about to unfold. Brienne seemed to be in the same situation. Pod, seeing an advantage for the first time, landed a blow on the woman's shoulder. Brienne retorted with a gut punch and forceful shove. The young man ended in a pile of snow.

"You are a lucky man," said Gaintsbane. Cirilla decided it was her queue to step in. She walked towards Brienne with her hand up, "Sorry, but I need her more right now," the witcheress said, looking at Tormund. The man smiled, amused by something that Ciri never caught on.

"I need to speak with Lady Sansa," Cirilla said, turning to the larger woman. Brienne looked at her funny.

"Lady Sansa is right there," she said, motioning up.

"No," the ashen-haired woman shook her head. "I need you to get her to talk to me."

Brienne didn't answer, her eyes were looking up. Cirilla followed. U Lady Sansa standing above them, overlooking the courtyard. Exactly where Cirilla had been yesterday. Beside Lady Stark was Lord Baelish, with his back to the courtyard, but undeniably him. Brienne went first, Cirilla following many steps behind.

Ciri heard the brief conversation that Brienne and Sansa were having about Lord Baelish. Littlefinger. She deemed it a fitting name for the man. When she heard her name, she walked up the stairs.

"Lady Ciri," Lady Sansa spoke first, "you wanted to speak with me."

"Aye, m'lady," the witcheress confirmed with a nod. "It's about a girl."

"A girl?"

"There's a girl in the archery. I think she's being starved for not shooting well."

"That man," Brienne said, angrily. The woman placed her hands on the rails, fingers in tight fists.

"If it is true," Lady Stark spoke, watching Brienne's reaction carefully, "the man will be dealt with. Do you know the name of the girl?"

"Yes, m'lady."

Sansa Stark asked few questions about the situation. But her resolve was unquestioned by Ciri. Brienne was walking beside her, visibly angered. Podrick was even taken aback by the anger on Brienne's face. Before he could place any questions, Cirilla gently shook the snow from Pod's shoulder and whispered to not question his mention on the matter and be careful avoiding her blows as those might be harder this time. Podrick reddened in the face and could only nod as a sign of understanding. Brienne shot them both a warning stare. Both smiled innocently and stepped away from each other.

* * *

It was just before sundown. Brienne and Ciri found themselves in the Great Hall, standing in the presence of the Lady of Winterfell and the King in the North. What should have been their break time turning into a trial. The man training in archery was present. In the middle of the Hall, right before his liege, he stood alone, unguarded. Ciri could not spy the girl who came to her in the morning. No children were present.

"Do you admit to starving the girl?" Sansa asked evenly.

"Do you believe me to be such a man, my lady?" the man asked with a forged offense.

 _Liar,_ thought Ciri, her firsts tight.

"Then why does the girl say so?" Lady Stark asked, her tone ever flat.

"She's a child, my lady," the man replied.

"She may be," Lady Sansa stood up, "but what about her mother that says the same?"

"What mother wouldn't believe her daughter?"

"And her father?"

The man just shrugged. Ciri could see where this was going. It's not that Lady Sansa believed his false words, but accusations weren't grand and hard to prove. He denied a peasant girl some food, it wasn't much of crime, even if it was done deliberately and in punishment. Doesn't mean the situation didn't infuriate her.

"My sister asked you a question," intervened Jon Snow, standing up.

"What can I say, my lord? They probably starving 'emselves," the man answered.

"No," spoke Sansa, "they don't. No more than anyone else at least. I call upon Lady Brienne and Lady Cirilla to come forth."

Ciri followed Brienne's lead. She was grateful that she wasn't called upon alone.

"Lady Brienne," said Stark, "how did you come to know of the situation?"

"Lady Cirilla informed me," answered Lady of Tarth.

"How did you come to know of this, Lady Ciri?" Sansa directed her gaze at the other woman.

"Her sister came to me in the morning on the verge of tears," Ciri said. "She told me."  
"And you informed Lady Brienne."

"Yes," Brienne confirmed. Cirilla was surprised by the statement. In truth, she spoke little to nothing to Brienne regarding the matter. And by Brienne's reaction in front of Lady Sansa, Cirilla thought that it was obvious. Yet…

"And why should we believe this stranger, my lady?" asked the man with spite. "She's an outsider! What is she, anyway?!"

"Would you question Lady Brienne's integrity as well?" the Stark woman asked evenly.

"N-no," he said meekly.

Lady Sansa nodded:

"I have asked the girls, their family," she said, her tone harder and harder with each word. "I even question the boys under your training. I wouldn't have gathered us here if I had any doubts in my claims."

"My lady, you asked children and a peasant family who are always hungry," the man said accusingly.

"Do not interrupt the Lady when she speaks," said Jon sternly. Sansa's lips were touched by a smile but only for a second.

"Do you deny it?" Lady Stark asked the man before her. "Do you deny the accusations against you?"

"'Course, my lady!"

"You shall be removed from your position. We'll find someone else to overlook the training of our archers," Lady Sansa said, sitting down. Her eyes were unwavering and cold. Lady Brienne and Ciri bowed in respect to the King in the North and Lady of Winterfell. The conflict seemed to be resolved but didn't sit well with the young witcheress. Too easy, too soon. Her green eyes watched as a man was shamefully escorted out.

* * *

Ciri should have known that it was too easy, too soon. She threw a punch, feeling the meeting of another's flesh and bones. Blood stained the freshly fallen snow. Silver studs on her gloves tore the skin near the man's mouth, forever imprinting that horrible grimace. He swore violently but she could barely make out the words. His mouth was filled with blood to speak clearly. He spat more crimson.

"I'll get you, whore!" the man shouted, running away. She wouldn't follow him, still bewildered by shock. He dared to attack her in the night, right nearby her room. She would barricade the doors from now on. No one could guarantee her protection here. She was an outsider, she didn't belong. Come morning, she would find herself in trouble.


	7. The answer is in the eyes

In her room, in the night, she barred the door and placed her sword near the bedside. And as she was falling asleep, for a moment, she thought she heard steps outside and a slight push against her door. But she fell asleep soon, dreaming again. Dreaming of a place that smelled like salt and smoke. She dreamed of warm air and wet sand beneath her feet. She dreamed of sea waves and another dark castle. She dreamed of a door and endless stone steps. Of echoes of steps on the polished floors and dust floating in the sunlight. She didn't dream of Winterfell or the North or White Walker. She dreamt of something warm and dark and far away. She didn't know what she dreamt of.

* * *

Cirilla rested her head on her hand, looking into her bowl of soup as if it understood her plight. When is going to happen? In a matter of minutes, or, perhaps, hours? Perhaps, the man got scared or even ashamed of losing to a woman. But something within Ciri didn't accept that as an explanation. The room was filled with whispers and chatters and loud proclamations. Noise and nothing else, until the commotion simmered down, moved closer and one of proclamation put every other conversation to a stop.

"The King is going South!" someone shouted in disbelieve. The man was large, hair dark and untamed. His first shook the table hard enough for the mugs to shake and spoons rattle.

"We know what happens to Starks that go South!" a woman supported. Her hair was just as dark and kept in a thick braid. She was picking up empty bowls and forgotten cutlery.

"He goes to see a dragon queen," an older man said begrudgingly. "And we know what Targaryens are."

Cirilla looked around, aimlessly, not a single familiar face. They wouldn't dare to speak so of their King in his or his family's presence. The men looked angry, the women concerned. Some men would have to leave their home and follow their King. Some women might not get to see their husbands, brothers, and sons again. Such is the way of war. Cirilla dropped her spoon on the table, unwilling to give the food a try. It would be lukewarm by now anyway. Amidst the number of northerners, plenty of noises and steps and figures, it was near impossible to spot an ally.

"How did you call it? Awfully gloomy face?" Ser Davos asked. The older man sat in front of her with his bowl. She glanced at the man briefly, noting how guarded her looked.

"It's probably the weather." Ciri couldn't manage to smile. It was crowded here, wooden spoons on wooden tables, shallow speeches of nameless men around her. Hollow sounds dulling her senses, souring her already spoiled mood. And the lukewarm food…

"Heard you've been busy," Ser Davos noted after his first spoon. He didn't express great appreciation but neither did he express disgust.

"You did the right thing," Seaworth sympathized, "while some might not like you for it, the King appreciated it."

The woman scoffed at this. It wasn't appreciation she was seeking. Justice would be a better word. Justice for the defenseless; peace and quiet for herself. That would be ideal. None would put an effort to make her comfortable.

"He announced you to be a royal guest, of sorts," Ser Davos pressed.

"What?" Her words loud, her actions drawing attention. The folk in the room watched her carefully, untrusting and testing. Davos's hand reached across the wooden table to grab her. It's not his strength but the gesture itself made her sit back down. He knew them just a little better.

"You aren't well liked here still," he said, almost whispering. Ciri's eyes travelled past him to watch a man of large stature moving across in their direction. Her expressions must have been telling as the old man didn't try to speak again. The larger man's hand dropped on the table demanding attention already given in abundance. Cirilla not once averted her gaze.

"Outsider," the man said meaningfully. Just like so many northerners, he had dark brown hair and dark eyes. And yet Ciri couldn't see animosity in those dark eyes or even anger. Distaste, disdain, but not enmity.

"Get out of here, outsider."

Cirilla didn't believe his anger so untrue it was.

"Go back from whence you came." The man placed another hand on the table, towering above Davos Seaworth. He was a boulder of man, with two minor battle scars on his face, and yet when he towered above the older man, Ciri knew that whose anger she would dislike most.

"There's a war coming, outsider, and we don't fight side by side with the likes of you," the northerner finished. His hands were still resting in the table next to Ser Davos's spoon. The witcheress spared only a second to think about the words, but someone else spoke for her.

"She's a guest here," Seaworth said flatly. He sank his spoon into the sick, lukewarm soup and blew on it as if it was still hot. The man exaggerated his appreciation of the food this time.

"Lady Ciri was named a guest of Winterfell," he continued nonchalantly. "Do guest rights still hold value in the North?"

"Of course, they do," a woman's voice spoke. Cirilla wanted to look for the woman who spoke among the people, yet she didn't want to turn away from the man who was intimidating her. The woman with a familiar thick braid stepped behind the large man, only her head and shoulders could be seen behind the crunching male figure. She gently pulled the man away from the table by his shoulder. He gave in. He straightened, hiding the woman behind him completely but her pale palm resting on his shoulder. He spared them another look before turning around to face the woman behind him. She whispered a few words too low for Ciri to catch them. As he walked away, the braided woman's face didn't betray a single emotion.

"The King is sailing South," Seaworrth said. His voice turned serious, dreadful even, pulling the witcheress into the conversation.

"To meet with a dragon queen."

"You are monster slayer, are you not?"

"Are you asking me if I can kill a dragon?"

"Can you?"

"Depends on a dragon," she shrugged. Most times "the dragon" was some royal wyvern or a very lucky, overgrown forktail. But if it was anything like the golden dragon Geralt had met, that could prove more problematic. Do dragons posses consciousness in this world?

"So, it's possible," Ser Davos spoke cautiously, fishing for a more definitive answer.

"I'll need to see it."

"You will."

"Excuse me?"

The answer was in the eyes.

"I am not leaving," she said simply, shaking her head. It wasn't a question of enjoyment or comfort. But she arrived in this world with a purpose. She would leave fulfilling it or loosing but not running.

"You aren't liked much here," Seaworth observed. "And we might need you."

"The King doesn't know, does he?" she asked, amused. The answer was in the eyes.

"I heard what the people are saying," the witcheress smiled, "I heard their fears. You want to use me."

"I want your help in case we need it," he corrected. "And I want to help you. There are men who are looking for blood."

"What if I can't kill a dragon?"

"Then pretend you can."

This is stupid, Ciri concluded.

* * *

Just like rainfall turns to snow due to cold, her rage had turned ice-cold as well. It was searing yet not all-consuming. It was cold but never fainting. Under the Broken Tower, the witcheress was alone seeking refuge from the thick plots of Winterfell. It seemed if she were to mingle among people, some would try to hurt her – which she didn't fear but didn't wish to antagonize just yet – or use her. Lady Stark in her, hopefully, noble pursuits. Lady Brienne in her undying loyalty to Lady Stark. And last, there was Davos Seaworth. The man couldn't possibly think that his idea could work. It was stupid and incredibly presumption. _She has the last_ _dragons..._

Quick and nimble steps approached her, too light even for a woman.

"You again," Ciri greeted the little girl. She tried to contain her sour mood behind the sweet tone of her voice, she doubted that she was successful at that. Yet the girl didn't seem swayed by the tension. She offered an apple with her two hands, "Thank you. For helping."

The witcheress took the fruit from the young girl with a nod of thanks.

"You came to me," Ciri spoke, "on your own," she put the words out there. She bit the apple. Sweet and sour and surprisingly ripe.

"Why didn't you get Lady Brienne?" she asked the girl after having no response.

"I'm scared of her."

"I have a scar on my face," Cirilla noted, two fingers sliding down the scarred tissue. Brienne, despite being tall and broad-shouldered, clad in armor, didn't have a scar that would be so noticeable on her face.

"Many women have scars, some from work, some from…" her eyes travelled somewhere far. For a moment, she seemed to be out of it. She was remembering something that Ciri could never know of.

"But Lady Brienne is so tall and strong and… and scary," she finished. She sounded as if she confessed some horrible deed. The little girl was ashamed fearing a woman.

"Don't be afraid of her," Ciri said with a short laugh. She hoped her light tone was helping to comfort the girl. The woman reached out her hand to place it on the small shoulder, "What's your name?"

"Arra," the girl answered.

"I'm Ciri."

"I know."

"You should go home, Arra, it's getting dark and cold."

The girl submissively nodded, uttered her thanks once again, and ran away. Light was her step, with a spring in it, despite the cold and darkness that was surrounding her small frame. Ciri was staring at her hand – the one she placed on the girl's shoulder – questioning the feeling flowing into her. A familiar feeling that she didn't welcome.

* * *

*Author's note*

Hello dear readers,

Believe it or not, the email ate all the notifications about followers and comments.

And the website doesn't have an in-yo-face-notification-system either.

But!

First of all, I appreciate all of you! Thank you!

Second, I promise to get to your comments in two weeks of this posting!

*holds two fingers crossed*


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